


Quick Favor

by PurpleLeader (orphan_account)



Series: Sorry, IOU [1]
Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, My first smut fic, enjoy some good ole late night fuckins, haha well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 19:13:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7374019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/PurpleLeader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>tom walks in on tord at 1 a.m. after a bit of begging, he decides to help the norski out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quick Favor

**Author's Note:**

> im so sorry

It’s 1 A.M. 

Tord is unable to sleep. He can’t stop tossing and turning around in his king-sized bed. Eventually, he rolls out of bed and falls on the carpeted floor… on top of a /loaded/ Kalashnikov AK-47. A quiet “Shit!” escapes his throat, and Tord carefully picks himself up from the floor. It would be very, very bad if the gun goes off.

The Norwegian has a habit of being bored. Naturally, he sneaks into the livingroom to movie-marathon some good ole’ Insane Zombie Pirates from Hell. Nothing like a horror film or five to lull him to sleep… after a quick jerk-off session. He makes some popcorn beforehand, though, sprinkling it with garlic salt and cheddar cheese. Food was never an opportunity he’d miss. The volume is turned down real low, so that he doesn't wake the others. Afterwards, Tord settles in on the couch, all wrapped up in a soft lavender blanket. He is, essentially, a Tordtilla. Very warm and cozy.

But he’s still very awake.

Tom, however, is sound asleep. The only thing that could wake him is, honestly, the loud whistling of a nearby train. What joy! That train happens to be passing by at the very moment. The Brit turns over in his bed, grumbling, and pulls his pillow atop his head. It doesn't work, though; Tom is already awake. 

He sits up, rubbing his eyes, and mutters, “God, does the train ever run at a decent time?” Well, since he’s already up, Tom figures he might as well get a late-night snack. He lazily swings his legs over the side of the bed, shivering when his feet hit the hardwood floor. 

Tom throws on some briefs before he shuffles into the hallway. He’d rather not flash his junk to his housemates, though being shirtless was fine. Everyone seemed not to care much about bare chests. Mostly, he’s just craving a whiskey slushy. So Tom didn't really care much about what he wore.

So, he goes into the kitchen. Being half-asleep, he doesn't quite pay attention to the lit-up television screen as he passes it. He definitely doesn't notice a hot and bothered Tord curled up on the couch, who's in full view while he makes his slushy.

He sits down at the table when finished, slurping away at the odd concoction. Tom sighs as the cold ice ran down his throat. It tastes so good. All too soon, it’s gone. Tom keeps sipping, because his brain hasn't quite processed that the cup is empty. About a minute later, it finally clicks that there’s no more slushy. 

“Aw, shit. I’m out,” he complains. Oh, well. Tom scoots the chair back and stands up. He stretches with a long yawn, shaking out some sleep-induced stiffness. After he tosses the plastic cup into the sink, he starts back towards his room. 

Of course, Tom would do that, if he didn't stop in the doorway that connects the living room to the kitchen.

Lord, he’s not drunk enough for this.

Tord is sprawled out on the couch underneath a blanket, face turned upward toward the ceiling. His eyes are closed, seemingly in bliss. Tom is almost fooled into thinking he was asleep… if not for the ragged noises the Norski is making, and the shitty hentai expression he wears. 

Honestly, Tom almost gags. 

“Well, you seem like you're enjoying yourself,” he clears his throat, loudly. Tom is completely unimpressed by the fact that Tord is jacking off to a horror movie. In fact, it seems just like him. The Norwegian immediately snaps to attention after he registers that Tom is standing there, watching him. For God knows how long. 

“T-Thomas! This isn't what it looks-” Tord begins to stammer. He jolts up, but obviously neglects to move the blanket off his lap. It’s hard work, y’know, trying to play off the fact that moments before you were getting yourself off on the couch to a horror film.

“No, no. It is definitely what it looks like. Tell you what: I’ll turn around and we’ll both forget this happened. M’kay, pumpkin?” Tom sticks his tongue out, crinkling his nose. He would love it if he had never woken up in the first place, just stayed in bed, but no! He had to get up, and he had to walk in on Tord getting himself off. On the couch.

Which was a shared space.

So yeah, Tom is kinda grossed out. He turns his back on Tord, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. The walk back to his room will be so awkward. A lightbulb goes off in Tord’s head, though, and the Norwegian lets out a needy whine. “Tom,” he groans. “Wait a minute.” 

The Brit mutters something under his breath and pauses, keeping his back to the Norwegian. “What? Haven't you scarred me enough?”

Tord takes a deep breath, hesitant to continue with his next statement. He squirms, too, underneath his blankets, pressing down on his crotch to keep from popping a tent. It might put Tom off even more, although that is likely impossible. Tord knows he’s already at a good level of disgust.

“Okay. So I know we’re supposed to hate each other and all, but you could- Maybe you could stay? And, you know, help me out.” Tord huffs, laying all the cards on the table. His face is red, full to the brim with embarrassment. “Of course, you’d get something out of it, too,” he adds quickly. It’s the first support that comes to mind. “I take it you haven't been laid in a while, yeah?”

God. Tom is definitely not drunk enough for this. Is Tord out of his mind? The brunette lets out a harsh laugh, wiping a fake tear from his eye as he turns to face Tord. He gets close enough that he can see the thin sheen of sweat that slicks the Norwegian’s face. “You can't be serious. Tell me you're joking.” 

The sheepish look on Tord’s face tells Tom that no, he’s not joking. 

“Oh, boy,” Tom murmurs. He runs a hand through his hair. This is a mess. He was so sleepy, and he was willing to bet Tord can finish just fine by himself. The pleading expression he wears begs to differ, but Tom isn't one to give in easily. He resumes going back to bed. 

Tord starts panicking. Unless he acts quickly, there’s no doubt in his mind that he’ll likely never get another opportunity like this. The Norski jumps up and, in a few long strides, catches up with Tom and gives a hard tug on his arm.

“C’mon, Tom! It's not gonna be the end of the world,” Tord whines. He’d really caught Tom off-guard with his request, and the fact that he’s begging is already humiliating enough. His voice is dripping with desperation, and Tom knows it, too.

He finds it kind of hot. 

The Brit whips around, wrenching out of Tord’s grip. He bends down and murmurs in the Norwegian’s ear, “You're pathetic, you know that? You’ll be calling me Sir from now on.” Shivers travel up Tord’s spine. Tom’s breathy whispers are warm against his skin, smelling of Jack Daniels whiskey and Colgate toothpaste.

Tom gives a husky chuckle at the other’s reaction and sinks to his knees, palming the front of Tord’s red boxers. He’s pleased to find the other’s bulge is still moderately hard, presumably because of the horror movies he’d been watching. That sick fuck is turned on by the weirdest things-

Tom has to be more attentive. He tugs down the front of Tord’s underwear, releasing his throbbing cock. It already has a little pre-cum dripping from the tip. “Hmm. Let's see what we can do about this,” Tom hums, leaning forward and rubbing the head with the tip of his forefinger. This elicits a groan from Tord, who angles his hips forward in an attempt to get Tom to do more. 

“Ah, ah, ah!” Tom grins devilishly. He lets go of Tord's dick and instead gives a swift, firm pull to his balls. “You’ll not move unless I tell you to. Are we clear?” Tord grumbles something and huffs, to which Tom squeezes a tad harder.

“Are we clear?” 

Tord squeaks at the extra pressure, grudgingly saying, “Yeah, yeah…” He purposely doesn't address Tom as ‘Sir’, just to see if he can get away with it. 

He can't.

“Did we forget something? I seem to recall you're supposed to be showing me some respect, hm?” Tom decides to coax the answer out of Tord, in the form of laving his tongue over the head of the other’s cock. Using the tight-lipped moan he gets as a cue, Tom continues to tease Tord (who was positively squirming in his place) with his tongue until he hears a gritted “Yes, s-sir.” 

Tom gruffly acknowledges it with a “That's right.” It almost calls for a reward, but he isn't feeling /exceedingly/ generous at the moment. Though Tom supposes he shouldn't keep Tord waiting impatiently any longer, right?

With flushed cheeks, he envelopes the head of Tord’s swollen dick in his mouth and swirls his tongue around it. The other hisses, threading a few fingers through Tom's hair and pulling him a bit closer. 

Tom playfully obliges the unspoken request, bobbing his head deeper on the shaft. He gets an amusing reaction when rubbing along Tord’s perineum, causing him to curse with a shaky voice. Oh, man. If Tord likes /that/… he’ll love what Tom is about to do. 

The Brit tilts his head, taking nearly the entire shaft further in his mouth until it comes to rest near the back of his throat. If Tord enjoys people choking on his dick, he’s in for a nasty surprise. 

Tom has no gag reflex.

As he slides further down, eventually hitting the base, Tord can't hold in a heavy gasp. “Kristus, Tom, du er veldig bra,” he pants, his grip on the other’s hair tightening. Tom pinches his leg, a signal to ‘hey, don't yank so hard, jackass’. Tord takes it, instead opting to press down on the back of Tom's head.

The Brit suctions his mouth, rubbing the inside of his mouth along the sides of Tord’s cock as he slides his head up and down. Strained fragments of “F-Faen, Tom,” and “Raskere! Raskere, ja, Tom! Holde det gående,” are choked out by Tord, who bites down on his lip hard enough to draw blood. Tom feels rather sly, and almost decides to withdraw and deny Tord his orgasm.

Although he can't, because rather quickly a heat begins to pool somewhere in Tord's gut. It further drives him to somewhat quietly choke out Tom’s name and pull him closer as the other starts bobbing his head faster, sliding fingers around Tord’s underside and pressing against his asshole, coaxing some moans and curses.

The final straw breaks, and Tord pulls out of Tom's mouth on instinct and instead cums directly onto his face. The Brit crinkles his nose and sticks his tongue out, standing back up with a hand ghosting over his skin. 

“Gross… Did you really have to do that?” Tom mumbled, wiping a few drops of cum from his cheek. At least it wasn't in his mouth. Though having it drip from his eye (holes? Sockets?) wasn't very fun, either. 

Tord runs a hand through his hair, exhaling. “No, but I have to admit, you're pretty good at this. Agree to go back to bed for now?”

“Deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> hope u enjoyed. christ.


End file.
